


In the bleak midwinter

by TheDameintheRaininMaine



Series: The coming of spring [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, King Bran Stark, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Rebuilding, arya said goodbye and returned with minimal drama, bran fought his way back into control of his own mind, life goes on - Freeform, relationships that mend, sansa and jon are respected and loved by those who follow them, ten years post series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDameintheRaininMaine/pseuds/TheDameintheRaininMaine
Summary: Ten years after the beginning of his reign, Bran Stark checks in on his loved ones, and dreams of the day he might be able to help Westeros move on.Follow up toAt the end they former a true lover's knot
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Meera Reed/Bran Stark
Series: The coming of spring [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760227
Comments: 6
Kudos: 96





	In the bleak midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Set ten years post series, approximately seven after true lover's knot.

Despite the others no longer being a threat, it was still a long winter, and possibly the coldest Westeros had seen in living memory. 

Even King’s Landing becomes blanketed in snow and ice, though not heavily enough to stop the carts coming in and out, the trade and struggle of its people, who’s memory of so recently being burned is still too close to the surface. 

It’s King sits on his throne, as cold and unfeeling as the season. 

Or so it’s citizens see. 

Bran had been stuck as the cold and unfeeling raven for so long that it is easy to keep the face on, and let them believe that’s what he still is. 

It’s only behind closed doors, with those closest to him. His hand, Tyrion Lannister, and the head of his Kingsguard, Ser Brienne of Tarth. The grand maester and his wife and children. It was only with these whom he felt he could let himself be seen, the Bran Stark who had been lost for so long. 

It was better that way, Bran thought. No matter how overwhelmingly glad he is to have himself back, that’s not what Westeros needed from their King. They needed someone staid, unmovable. Someone without passion or anger or bloodlust. And if his manner was off putting, then maybe they would learn to only seek his aid when it was truly needed. And those times would come less and less often. 

And maybe someday, they would not need him at all, and he could be done with all of this. They would realize they did not need a king to sit above them and decide what they needed. And that damned throne, and all the bloodshed it caused, could die with him.

He dreams, endlessly, of when that day will come.

But now, in the depths of winter, he sits upon his chilly throne, and stands stolid, the king of the ice and snow. 

And sometimes, he finds himself in the Godswood. He doesn’t come here much now, not since that one sweet, far day, but today he locks his wheels underneath the still-red leaves of the weirwood, and checks on the others he holds dear. 

There is, within the Red Keep, a room with two small beds which is on paper, Gilly’s. She has never slept there. 

Right now, her and Sam sit at the desk in the grand Maester’s chambers, pouring over paperwork and whispering. Little Sam sits upon the bed, playing with his younger sister without a care. 

“It’s a good idea,” Sam admits, “But I don’t know if people will go for it.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Gilly insists, “You remember what it meant to me.”

Bran smiles. It had been the same day that they had asked him to come with them to the Godswood that they had told him of their plans.

_“It’s just there’s so much of this place that isn’t being used…” Sam had trailed off. This as true, the rebuilt Red Keep having whole wings which were not in use._

__

__

“And really it isn’t fair for them to keep everything to themselves in Oldstown.” Gilly had added. Truthfully, Bran hadn’t felt any guilt at letting Sam break the maester’s vow. What happened in the Godswood was between the gods and them. It would never go down on paper, and Sam and Gilly knew it. 

_But what did that matter to them?_

And after, they sent little Sam, now nearly as tall as his father, out into the streets near the keep, to find the other children. And now, every moon or so, in one of the rebuilt buildings near a gate that goes mostly unguarded, scores of children meet, boys and girls, street rats and merchant’s children alike. They reach the keep leaving their footsteps in the snow, and wearing their thickest wool, and come to learn their letters and their numbers, and how to tie a snare and a bowline. 

And, for now, they are thinking and planning about what else they could teach them. 

Ser Brienne is on guard duty this night. She stands her perch with poise. Bran sometimes wonders if she had ever dreamed of this life, even if she never spoke of it. It was a coveted position, but one that was doomed to loneliness. Sometimes he thinks he should release her, allow to travel North to serve Sansa again, that they might both have a friend. Selfishly, he knows he depends too much on her. 

In his own chambers in the tower of the Hand (though much smaller than the one previous), Tyrion Lannister writes a letter. 

The friendship that lingered between the Hand and his former wife was truly a sight to behold. Perhaps the man, having lost what was left of his own family, clung to something that might not have been perfect, but was honest in it’s own way. It seemed Tyrion, much like Bran, often feared Sansa was lonely in Winterfell.

But the truth is, Sansa is too busy to be lonely. 

Even in the depths of frozen winter, the North did not grind to a halt. Roads still had to be cleared, animals fed and watered, stores kept an eye on. And the Queen in the North presided over all of this. 

And on it’s own, the North can thrive. 

Tonight, Sansa is sitting by the fire in her solar, reading. Her hair hangs loose down her back and in her night dress, she is in a state no one but those closest to her has ever seen. Tomorrow she will be taking petitions, and then finding accommodations for a group of orphans. 

Orphans have been a special problem in the north it turns out. So many died in the war for the dawn, they are everywhere. And it’s not just the number, it’s that so much still needs to be done. Repairs are ongoing, even this nearly ten years later. 

It had been the first decree Sansa had made as queen. Orphaned children would be placed in apprenticeships, cost paid by Winterfell, and would be placed either with families or allowed to shelter in groups. No children would die huddling for warmth on a village street while Sansa was Queen in the North. Sometimes she thinks of what Jon told her once, about how many groups of the Free Folk treated the children as if they belonged to all of them, and wonders if there was anything to convince her northerners to take this view.

But tonight, the Queen simply reads a letter from the north, then snuffed out her candle and went to bed.

The letter she reads come from far north of Winterfell. Jon sent it from the last Free Folk settlement he had been to, the bird that carried it is huge and sharp-beaked; the only raven to travel north of the Wall. 

Bran’s heart aches at the sight of his brother-cousin. Though the devastation has finally begun to fade from his eyes after all this time, his appearance still belies his self-imposed exile: His hair has grown long, a beard accompanying it. 

But despite his mental state, the others follow him. They have made their way across the land of beyond-the-wall. Sometimes they stop, clearing debris from a formerly abandoned village. They burn corpses, and rebuild dwellings, and sometimes some of them settle and don’t leave. 

But Jon always does. 

Bran wishes that sometime during the night, he will be able to reach out and touch Jon, the way he did Meera years ago, to remind him of those there are south of the wall, who do not want to lose him to the winter. 

And finally, Bran lets himself drift east. 

It doesn’t snow often at Storm’s End. The winters here primarily consist of the immense, stone castle being battered by endless storms that drop rain, and hail and wallop it with winds enough to scrap the skin from your face for days on end. 

But inside the castle, the fires burn warm, there for anyone to dry off from being inside. 

Two girls, black of hair and blue of eye, wring their plaited hair out over the hearth, talking over each other. 

As their words reach the point of unintelligible, their mother approaches from behind them with a towel. 

“All you would have to do is pull up your hoods and you wouldn’t get so wet,” Arya chides them, rolling her eyes at their cloaks, left on the ground by the door, “That is why they have them.”

And in the winter, the rain in the Stormlands could freeze a man to his bones, she doesn’t add. 

Both girls ignore her, and instead launch into a roaring stream of what they’d done that day.

“We saw a dolphin!”

“That was a fish!”

“Nuh uh, it was too big!”

“Oh, and a rainbow over the sea-”

“Lysa pulled off my ribbon again”

“I did not! It fell!”

Arya shushes them both by picking their fallen cloaks and thrusting the wet wool in both of their arms. 

“Lyra, go the forge and drag your father out. It’s past supper, and we’ve all missed it again. Lysa, go to the kitchen and have Polly have our food sent up to the solar by the guest wing.”

Lyra runs off without another word. Often taciturn like her father, only being around her twin brought the mischief out of her. Gendry couldn’t spend as much time in the forge as before, but whenever he had the extra time, he would sneak down, and his daughter would follow, fetching and moving things for him, and between the two of them they would pull tools and armor and other joys straight from the flames. 

Lysa’s eyes go bugged out at her mother’s words. 

“If we’re having supper, does that mean Maester Elric doesn’t need you anymore? The baby’s born?”

Arya’s barely perceptible nod causes Lysa to squeal loudly. Arya’s reaches out and grabs her by the plait before she can run off.

‘Hold onto your guts, giving birth is tiring. Leave your aunt be, and we’ll let you both meet your cousin tomorrow morning.”

Lysa pouts, but doesn’t race off. Lysa loved babies, and had been ecstatic to meet the aunt she hadn’t known she had, especially since she was going to have a tiny cousin to squeal over.

Gendry comes in from the forge still in his apron. He takes it off, goes to the basin and scrubs his hands clean with a thick paste before joining his wife and daughters. 

Supper is a stew of salted fish and mussels, The storms wash plenty ashore even if the fisherman cannot always go out. Lysa happily chatters off stories the twins had been told of the krakens that must live in the waters. 

Afterwards, Arya sends both the girls off to bed, where they go, sulkily. 

Once they are gone, Gendry pulls on her hand towards their bed, and she pulls back. 

“Gonna go check on Meera again.”

He sighs. 

“I’m surprised Elric let you leave. He speaks of you like some kind of legend. “

“Well I did carry twins and walk around like normal until they day they came.”

“And then tried to get straight up the day after and resume your duties.”

Arya shrugs. 

“Not like I could know as a child I would be good at having them.”

Just what she’d always want to be known for, Bran thought to himself. Forget the uncharted islands her ship and crew had found, or the new route to Essos they had mapped, all the Maester wanted to praise her for was the ease at which she bore children. 

Sometimes, when the Maester says these things, Arya dreams of the places she’d been. The islands with spiky fruit that tasted of soft custard. The huge, long toothed beasts the sailors would spy, sunning themselves on rocks. The smell of spices on a bay, well before anything but the buildings can be seen on the horizon. 

_She tells Gendry that she longs to go back. To smell the sea air and feel the boat shifting under her feet. Her three years at sea had reinvigorated her soul, let her breathe again and rediscover what joy was._

__

__

She’d missed Gendry terribly though, and had told him so often. She’d kept her promise to come back for more than a single reason.

She wants to take him this time, wants to nestle underneath his arms in the hammock on deck, being rocked to sleep by the ocean waves. She wants to show him everything she had seen, that he might come alive again without the stress of being a Lord Paramount who had never once thought he would amount to anything.

_“Maybe in the future,” she says, “When the girls are older. We can leave all the paperwork and all the squabbling and all the disasters on the horizon and just sail off into the sunset.”_

When he watches his nieces, Bran is very glad that one of the first royal decrees he had to sign was ushering in Dornish inheritance laws into use across Westeros. It hadn’t been a popular decision, especially when it came to heirs who were already being prepared to rule(and wouldn’t be ousted, his advisors assured them), but it was necessary. Every one of the six kingdoms would be left with at least one house wiped out of existence otherwise. 

He makes it up to the guest wing before Arya does, but waits before she enters. When he does, he finds himself averting the memory. Watching Meera on the bed is like looking into the sun.

She’s only wearing a shift, her curls stuck to her scalp with sweat. The linen wrapped bundle she holds against her chest is quiet for the moment. She tilts her head up when Arya enters. 

“You feel back in one piece yet?”

Meera snorts, 

“I don’t think I have any bones left. I can’t believe Ser Davos’s wife did this seven times.”

“Nonsense,” Arya insists, “You did fine. Didn’t tear even a little.”

Meera’s expression mirrors Bran’s thought process. Of all the things the visions taught him, that such a thing was possible was on a long list of things he wished he could unsee. 

Arya sits at the chair the maester had left beside the bed. 

“I hadn’t asked. Did you have a name picked out?”

Meera nods. 

“Catelyn. We- we were going to leave it for Sansa...but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards so…”

There’s a moment of silence for that. Arya reaches out to flick a finger on the tip of the child’s nose, causing her to make a gurgling sound and shift in Meera’s arms. 

“I was thinking of sending one of the twins to Winterfell,” Arya admits, “But I can’t bear the thought of separating them. I might have to eventually.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Meera recites. 

Arya stares off, sadly, before changing the subject. 

“There’s no rush. You can stay here until you’re back to normal and she’s sleeping more soundly.”

Meera’s eyes squeeze for a moment, as though she was blinking back tears. 

“Thank you...I wasn’t sure what we were going to do when- and it wouldn’t have been safe to try and travel back home this time of winter.”

“Is that,” Arya asks, trying not to pry, “What you’re going to do when you leave? You’re going to return to Greywater Watch?”

Meera nods. One of Cat’s arms has come unwrapped, and she reaches up for her mother’s face.

“I owe my father an heir...and Bran can’t have a wife or an heir. That was the plan, and it seemed to be working out fine for us. We talked about it a lot the morning before I left. I’ll stay there for a bit though- at least long enough for him to write it down. Thanks to the power of royal decree, she will bear my name.”

To the world, Meera thought, on paper her daughter might as well be a bastard. She wouldn’t get to know her father until they were all older. The tears gathered in the corner of her eye breaks free, marking a path down her cheek. She nudges it away with her wrist. 

“I wish I didn’t miss him so badly though.”

_Sam and Gilly had stood witness for them in the Godswood, without even a question._

__

__

“You did the same for us,” Gilly insisted, “Of course we would.”

Sam had helped him from his chair, so he could sit in the snow beneath the weirwood, and Meera had knelt beside him. Sam had said the words, stumbling a bit, and needing Gilly to nudge and whisper to him. The only cloak available was the same plain wool one he wore everyday, which Meera replaced with her own so he would not shiver, despite not being a traditional part of the ceremony, it suited them. 

They clasped hands and prayed, the light snow collecting on their clothes and hair.

It could never go down on paper, they all knew that. But the Godswood had seen more than one of these, and what went on between them and the gods was for them alone. 

_Bran would be the last king of Westeros if he had anything to say about it. Maybe sometime in the future, the story would find it’s way out. The queen and princess who weren’t there._

“Seven years it took,” Meera commented, and Bran breaks away from the memory. “We were beginning to think the maesters were right and Bran couldn’t have children,”

Arya rolls her eyes. 

“I never understood why they were so certain of that. Though it did take all seven years.”

“And it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying-”

“Hey, if you’re going to go down that alley, I’ll just leave you alone tonight.”

“I don’t think I am alone.”

Arya smirks. 

“You think he’s doing the creepy all-seeing bit again?”

“I don’t think he can help it. When I’m not there it’s harder for him to stay in the moment.”

Arya leans foward and claps her on the shoulder. 

“If he decides to show up in your dreams again, tell him hello from all of us.”

And with that, she leaves her good-sister and niece alone. 

Meera plays with the bit of twine she still wears tied to her wrist. Catelyn is snuggled up against her chest, and she stares off into the candle lit darkness. 

Then she tilts her eyes to the ceiling, sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes. 

“Quit lingering,” she says out into the void, “Go to the day I left if you must. I’ll be back soon enough, if only for a little while.”

Bran’s mind chuckles deeply. He could never get much past her. 

Opening his eyes for a moment in the Godswood, just long enough to make sure he hadn’t frozen in place, he takes her advice and slips back to the morning before she’d left for Storm’s End. 

_Podrick and Brienne took turns on guarding his chamber at night, and then helping him get up in the morning before ending their watch. The chambermaid who handled this part of the keep didn’t come in until later in the morning. Being quite elderly, Bran wasn’t even entirely sure she knew when one monarch changed to the next._

__

__

In practice, this meant Meera could stay with him most nights into the morning without arising whatever gossip would have made it’s way about the keep, even if her few things were kept in the mostly unused chamber that Gilly supposedly slept in. The castle staff was much smaller than it had been in years before, and most of them found King Bran as off putting as the citizens. 

It was his favorite part of the day. It was somehow both so different, and just the same as the nights north of the wall when they’d had to sleep practically on top of each other for warmth.

This morning, in particular, he has one of her thighs on one shoulder and his mouth pressed up against her cunt. 

One of her hands twists in his hair and he smiles against her. 

He licks a stripe up the center of her, and is rewarded with a whisper of a moan. She’s not especially loud, so every one that he draws from her is a victory. He can do this as well as any man, legs or no legs, he thinks.

The visions had told him that some men thought this act below them. They were morons, Bran thought, morons who were missing out. He had long since ignored any knowledge gained in this area from the visions, and just let Meera show him what she’d figured out for herself, and they worked out the rest together. 

Her moans get quicker and breathier as he works his tongue faster against her flesh. He feels her quiver and her hand wrench the handful of his hair as she comes underneath him.

And it’s with a satisfied smile, that he takes one of her hands she offers to help pull him back up to the head of the bed, and then gently rolls him onto his back. 

“You make me feel selfish sometimes,” she says, head laid back, chest still heaving. 

“Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it,” he assures her. He reaches down to lay one hand of the small swell in her lower abdomen, “Believe it was you attempting to return the favor was what got us into this situation.”

With a twitch of her lips, she leans over and kisses him, before sliding one leg over and gently lowering herself onto him.

Her movements are languid, still tender from her earlier orgasm. She rests her forearms on his chest and watches him. 

“It’s not fair that I have to leave already,” she says, pouting. 

His hands find her waist. 

“You’re too skinny, people will notice too fast.”

She sighs deeply. 

“I know, but I still don’t want to.”

Even as her movements pick up speed again, she still won’t stop touching him, his shoulders, his chest. He had tried to explain to her before that most of the pleasure he got from this was watching her, but she never wanted to stand for it. 

When she bends to press a kiss just below his ear, he whispers to her, 

“My queen.”

His words make her twitch and clench, and when one hand wanders to twist a nipple, she comes again, softly this time. 

Afterwards, when she lays on top of him, face against his chest, he tells her, 

“Someday I’ll be able to leave. Someday this damned place won’t need a king anymore and we’ll be able to launch that godsdamned throne into the sea. Then I can come north with you and we can leave all of this behind.”

_It’s a good dream, they both agree. As much as they both know it’s just a dream, especially in the depths of winter._

“Your grace?” he hears in the Godswood, breaking him from his memory. It’s Podrick. 

“It’s getting late your grace, are you ready to come in?”

Bran nods, and lets him push his chair through the snow and back into the keep. 

And behind him, unnoticed, a snowdrop pokes it’s head through the ground.


End file.
